


Elevator Love Letters

by oxymoronassoc



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love Letters James Bond Never Sent (and Never Could)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elevator Love Letters

**One.**

He waits for the water to begin to run cold before he stirs her gently, helps her to her feet. He has it all planned out, how he’ll reach up and turn the water off before picking her up in his arms and carrying her to his room where he’ll strip the wet clothes off her shivering body, touch her pale skin pimpled with gooseflesh, climb over her, kiss the tears from her cheeks, kiss the pale lilac of her eyelids, make her forget.

All he has to do is wait, wait to do what he does best. The tile digs into his spine and he cradles her cheek, her head against his shoulder. She’s breathing, slow and shallow, against the wet lawn of his shirt. Her lashes flutter coal-black against her flushed cheeks. He isn’t sure if he should say something, so he stays silent. 

The waiting is easy; he’s been waiting all his life for just the right moment to make his move and he’ll continue waiting. The waiting isn’t hard. But comforting? Well, how does one comfort a machine? And how can the machine return the affection? He’s a tool, a very precise one at that, good at his job.

This isn’t part of his job. He’s no good at it. So he waits.

Only, this is a hotel. And the water never runs cold. 

 

**Two.**

The water never runs cold. 

He realizes this after a long while. His foot is falling asleep and he reaches up, turns off the faucet, climbs stiffly to his feet. He helps her up. She’s groggy, but she still has that terrified look, lurking in the back of her eyes.

“Come on,” he says to her, softly, like he’s coaxing a scared horse back into the stables. 

She takes a wobbly-kneed step, bites her lip. “It’s all gone?” she says, holding her palms out like a child.

“It’s all gone,” he says, taking one of her hands and gently leading her out of the shower into the bathroom. She stands blinking beneath the lights of the vanity dripping on the floor.

“You’re cold,” he says, bringing over a towel and wrapping her in it like her mother used to after a bath. 

She realizes then she is cold and she shivers, clutching at the edges of the towel. 

“You should take off your dress,” he suggests gently. 

She nods but won’t let go of the enveloping comfort of the soft towel. He watches her a moment before he makes a noise in his throat that she’s not sure is a comment or just him clearing his throat. He steps behind her, reaches under the towel and unclasps the neck of her dress. The front of it gives and she lets it sag down towards her hips.

His hands brush over her bare back, warm against her clammy skin, and she starts slightly and he makes a soft noise like she’s a scared animal. She’s not sure if she resents it or appreciates it. His hands fumble slightly over the strap across her lower back before it too gives and then his hands are on the hidden zipper, pulling it down with an efficient tug. 

“Thank you,” she says, letting the dress slither down her legs. It sticks to her skin and she wants to scream but instead merely stamps the satin down with her feet, grinding the delicate fabric into the tile. 

“You’re welcome.” He’s still fully clothed, soaking wet. His necktie hangs undone around his shoulders. 

She smiles at him tightly, no teeth, before pulling the towel tighter around herself. “Well….goodnight, then.” She crosses the tile, bare feet still damp and slipping a little on the floor.

He waits until she’s at the doorway that leads into her room before replying. “Goodnight, Vesper,” he says, her name a caress of his voice.

She stares at him over her shoulder, expression unreadable, before closing the door quietly between them.

 

**Three.**

He wakes up, groggy. Somehow, he knows that a long time has passed. 

“Where am I?” he manages to croak out of a dry throat. 

“Hospital,” says that bitingly crisp voice he’d know anywhere.

“M?” he asks, and then he tries to sit up, the memories flooding back in a rush. “Mathis. The money. Double agent.”

A nurse lays a calming hand on his shoulder, clucks at him, tells him to not stress himself. M ignores the look shot her way and dismisses the woman with a wave of her hand. 

“It’s alright,” she says. “We know.”

“Oh.” Of course. She knows everything. It’s creepy, almost, if it wasn’t so efficient.

“It wasn’t Mathis, you know,” she says after a moment. Her expression says she gives this information against her better judgement.

“What?!” His head falls back against the pillow; he screws his eyes shut. “Her. It was her. The boyfriend…”

“Yes,” M says. “She loved him very much. It was a conspiracy, you know.”

“Did you get her?” he says, his voice gone hard. “Did you get the bitch?”

“It has been dealt with,” M says. “I hope you learned your lesson.” 

He opens his eyes, meeting her hard, level stare. “Never trust anyone.” He means his smirk to be wry, but it’s just bitter.

“Indeed. Get better, James. We need you.” She rises from where she sits on the hard little hospital chair and exits the room.

He knows better than to say thank you. 

 

**Four.**

It’s over. It’s done. The past is the past. Or that’s what he’ll tell himself. The dead know no revenge.

He sits in his non-descript, tastefully Modern, utterly characterless flat. It’s winter, almost spring. There are no lights on; it’s gloomy and everything’s grey and pale blue from the outside light.

It’s England, so it’s raining. 

There’s a laptop on the desk that he doesn’t open; a stack of Thank You cards peer neatly from a thin cardboard sleeve.

He didn’t buy them; he doesn’t remember how they got there. 

Moneypenny. 

He makes a mental note to give her a bigger Christmas bonus this year. 

A mug of pens lurks on one corner, behind the tastefully quotidian sculptural metal desk lamp. He picks up one of the pens, pauses with it held lightly in one hand. 

His gaze goes out the window, focuses on nothing but the internal. 

He pushes the pen aside, chews meditatively on the inside of his cheek.

How do you thank someone for knowing you better than yourself?


End file.
